


The Lingerer

by Piano_Padawan



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Middle Earth Setting, Angst, Blood and Injury, Cults, Dark, Fantasy Violence, Ghosts, Gingerpilot, Half-Elves, Holdo and Poe Do Not Get Along, Magic, Major Character Injury, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Post-Lord of the Rings, Psychological Horror, Repressed Memories, Star Wars Characters in Middle Earth Universe, Torture, more characters to be added as they are introduced
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2019-11-15 06:15:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18068117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piano_Padawan/pseuds/Piano_Padawan
Summary: 300 years have passed since the destruction of the One Ring. The time of the elves has ended, leaving only a few half-elven Peredhel as the last remnants of the Eldar…But a new shadow has arisen in Middle Earth. The realms of Rohan and Gondor, each ruled by the twin monarchs Luke Skywalker and Leia Organa, are estranged. Ben Solo, heir to the throne of both kingdoms has fallen into a fate darker than death.As doubt grows in the world of men, the half-elven Armitage Hux finds himself far from home, lost in the wilderness and pursued by the vicious Knights of Ren. In a desperate encounter with Poe Dameron, the banished captain of Gondor, Armitage sees a means of escape, a temporary alliance at most. But fate is unpredictable, and a bond between two outcasts is not to be taken lightly.Crossover with Star Wars characters in Middle Earth AU. All themes and places from LoTR/the Silmarillion are introduced/explained eventually in the story, so it should be understandable without prior knowledge of Tolkien.





	1. Out of Necessity

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, or Star Wars, or any of the characters, themes, etc. mentioned in this story. All copyrighted work here is intended for transformative purposes.

The Peredhel crept out from the maze of boulders with the stealth of a shadow. Having heard the cries and clashing swords from afar, he had been prudent to avoid the skirmish. Even now, he was loath to enter the abandoned battle ground but he hadn’t any choice. The passage was the only way out mountain labyrinth, at least from so far as he could tell, and he had been ensnared there for far too long.

He travelled swiftly over the thickening cover of snow, leaving no footprints as he went. His eyes were peeled for threats concealed by the storm. The blizzard conditions were ripe for ambush. The phantom gaze of his hunters was ever present as was the formless touch of their grasping hands and the sound of the unforgiving chains.

A prostrate form in the middle of the path made him freeze in his tracks. It was unmistakably a body, human from what he could tell; he would have smelled the stench of an orcish corpse from miles away. To his relief, the killers appeared to be long gone. The blood from their victim’s wounds was already blanched pink by a coat of snow. The man looked to have been dead for an hour at least.

After a brief survey to ascertain that there was no lingering threat, the Peredhel stalked down to the body, regarding it with neither disgust nor grief. Just as he was about to carry on, a silver gleam caught his eye. He knelt beside the corpse for a closer look and was pleased by what he found.

A sword lay beside the man’s cold hands. The blade was crafted with metal that was sleek yet strong, the hilt emblazoned with a bronze emblem, of what house or land, the Peredhel could not say. A fine weapon, too fine to let go to waste…

It wasn’t the first time he had taken something from a corpse (and it certainly wouldn’t be the last). The very travelling cloak and pack he carried at the moment had been taken from an untimely grave – whether the travelers had died from hunger or the cold, he could not tell and didn’t care to know – which he had stumbled upon months ago. The sword was by far, however, the best of the treasures he’d stumbled across. He reckoned it was valuable, though he had little use for money anymore. More importantly, it would be of use against his enemies. The hunters were never far in body or in mind.

He reached for the weapon. No sooner had he touched the hilt did the fingers of the dead man encircle his wrists. The Peredhel recoiled with a small cry of shock. To his horror, the hand shifted to lay limp over the sword. The man was mumbling something in the Common Speech. His breathing was nearly imperceptible but nonetheless an undeniable sign of life.

_Leave him._

It was the most intuitive decision and perhaps the wisest. Indeed, there was little guilt in deserting the man. The Peredhel had been raised to rise above guilt where the weak were concerned. The old lessons ran deep in his blood, enduring even as the memories matching them were lost.

The wounded man moaned and made another feeble attempt to clasp his sword. The Peredhel watched, unsure what to make of it all. He knew little of the people in this realm of Middle Earth, wherever that happened to be; he had wandered far from the seas he’d once called home, running through strange lands with inhabitants who were usually either hostile or deceitful.

The Peredhel nudged the man onto his back. The latter let out an unintelligible growl of protest, but his power to resist was feeble. He had the built of a warrior, reminding the Peredhel of the mortal men he’d seen at the shoreline cities, the ones who would ride horses up to the docks and offer the beasts as tribute. Yet, there was something odd about the man, an intriguing air that lay deeper than comely features. The Peredhel wasn’t sure whether to find this alluring or alarming.

A deep wound in the man’s chest revealed the source of his misery. The cut had been inflicted with enough force to pierce through his armor. The Peredhel reached a tentative hand forward to push aside the shards of chainmail. The sight that greeted him chilled his blood:

The black mark of a Morgul Blade.

He had heard stories of the ancient weapon of Mordor, the Land of Shadow, whispers of its twisted powers. Dark tendrils were already stretching beneath the man’s skin, tracing the path of a shard moving from the wound where it had entered towards its victim’s heart. Legends warned of the fate of those who allowed the blade to reach its mark – the passage into the Unseen Realm where the fallen spirits dwelled.

Here before him, the tales had proven to be more than grim fantasy. The Peredhel recoiled from the accursed wound. He had only observed such an injury once. The remedy had been taxing even for the most skilled healers. The mere thought of it made him feel numb.

Nevertheless, a reckless plot had crept into his mind. It was a foolish impulse, but one that had material basis if nothing else. He had herbs in his travelling pack, Athelas preserved from his travels through the rare stretches of fertile land along with the other remedies he horded, out of paranoia as much as necessity. Perhaps his store would be of use now.

“ _Rhaich_ ,” he swore. He had not time to waste with trivial charity. In a kinder world, benevolence could be dealt out on a whim, but that was not where he was now. He had another task at hand and little time to spare. He needed to find his way out of these accursed mountains, back to the sea, to his father, to the Order he had sworn loyalty to from birth…

Yet, that task was growing more impossible with each day. He’d been wandering for months now with little progress. Another week in these mountains was bound to either kill him or drive him mad, and if he did not starve or freeze to death, he would surely be captured in time. He was running out of places to hide from his hunters. He had no doubt that they had been the ones to inflict the Morgul wound. The mere thought of what other dark sorcery they possessed made him shudder.

“I know who you are.”

The wounded man’s hoarse interjection drew the Peredhel away from his thoughts. He watched as the man attempted unsuccessfully to push himself off the ground, raising his head and looking up with half-opened eyes.

“I know… Ben Solo… son of… of Organa…” A hacking cough interrupted his slurred speech. “Organa of Gondor… the queen… your…”

The man’s words dissolved into labored breathing. The Peredhel considered the scattered phrases, a murmur of interest sprouting in his mind. He had heard of the Kingdom of Gondor, though he knew nothing about the land or its queen; he had never had time to develop any coherent image of the regions outside the place of his childhood.

But this man seemed to know these lands. He would be of little use now, of course, but he had the potential. After his encounter with the Morgul Blade, he would surely have no fondness for the hunters. Perhaps he would be willing to serve as a guide. Alliances, after all, were strongest when formed around a common enemy. In combination with a life debt, their partnership, however temporary, could be an invaluable resource.

The man let out a low, anguished moan, groping in the snow for his sword. The Peredhel watched him flounder, weighing the risks, considering the bleak alternatives. After assuring himself that the decision was driven by necessity, he made his choice. Perchance in this pitiful encounter, he had finally found a means by which both parties could survive.

And Armitage Hux was nothing if not a survivor.


	2. Coarse Charity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a general note, I'm trying relatively shorter chapters for this fic, hoping that it gets the momentum going. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. Thank you to everyone who's left kudos or comments. I enjoy reading the feedback.

Poe listened to the sound of traveler’s boots shuffling in the snow beside him. He braced himself for the fall of the sword or the axe. It would have been a merciful end, a swift spike of pain before the blade severed his life. His parents had told him stories of the undying lands, of the realm of Valinor, forever green. It had always laid somewhere ahead of him, an inevitable fate, or so he had convinced himself.

But the blow didn’t fall. Instead, a foot prodded him onto his back. He tried to open his eyes, but the world remained foggy. His vision had steadily turned to a blur in the time since the attack. He could not tell how long that had been. Everything had become muddled as the unearthly trance settled in.

He could feel the pain of the wound, not ceasing but retreating, coming in terrible waves before drawing back. It was as if the poison was driving a gap between consciousness and self, a wound far more terrifying than the agony. He tried to fight it, forcing himself back to where he was and the unfortunate events that had brought him there. He thought of Gondor, of the queen and the people he had sworn loyalty to, of the menace he had encountered in the mountains…

“I know who you are,” he murmured, as if the monster could hear him. “I know… Ben Solo… son of… of Organa…”

The stranger was bent over him. He could not make out their face but was able to distinguish a long, black cloak with a hood drawn over a flare of red hair. They didn’t look like any of the foes he had encountered. Whether they were someone – or something – worse… well, there was no way to tell that just by looking at them.

Before he could stop them, the stranger snatched up his sword. Poe let out a wordless shout of protest though he knew he could do nothing. Then, to his surprise, the stranger attempted to pick him up. He was hoisted no more than an inch above the ground before being dropped back into the snow.

The stranger grumbled what Poe assumed was an expletive, three cropped, guttural syllable. The accent was similar to the tongues of men he’d heard at the trading harbors, but the language was unfamiliar. At least it wasn’t Orkish or Black Speech.

“Let go of me,” Poe mumbled as the stranger gripped his shoulders once more.

The stranger ignored this request and tried to lift him a second time, only to fail again with a frustrated grunt. It was scarcely a surprise. The stranger was tall, taller perhaps than Poe, but skinny, judging from the bony fingers clawing at his shoulders.

“ _Eru melui…_ ”

This time, Poe recognized the language at once. Rarely did he hear anyone but himself utter a word of the Sindarin tongue. With the departure of the elves, the language was nearly extinct in Middle Earth. Perhaps Poe would have abandoned it too if given the choice, another way to shed the past that kept him from embracing the world of men, but some memories were hard to lose. Perhaps now was finally a chance to put the ancient language to use.

“Daro!” he said, as loudly as he could manage. Whether the stranger dropped him due to physical limits or shock, he could not tell.

Poe gathered his strength to speak, trying to cough away the stiffness in his throat.

“Daro,” Another cough. He took a deep breath. “M-man le?”

_Who are you?_

The stranger tensed. He recoiled his grip and for a moment, Poe expected him to run away. But the stranger stayed, looming over him.

“Be quiet,” the stranger hissed in the Common Speech. “You are too loud. Be quiet or they will hear us.”

The warning needed no further elaboration for Poe to guess who “they” were. He hadn’t seen the enemy since the attack. They seemed to be contented to leave their victims, dead or alive, to freeze and rot in the blizzard. He was sure, however, that they would return in time. The rumors had claimed that the knights returned to the same regions, following the old paths and terrorizing travelers as they went. He didn’t know how much truth there was in the stories. The first whispers of the shrouded warriors had emerged years ago, but up until now, the Knights of Ren had been nothing but figments of ghost stories.

The Knights of Ren…

Ben Solo…

Queen Organa…

Thinking about it made Poe heartsick. He could not conceive any proper way to deliver the news to Organa. Perhaps she had already suspected the truth, but who could blame her for hoping otherwise? It was best to approach the matter delicately. He would have to do it away from the captains and stewards, though he doubted he would be trusted to hold private counsel with the queen.

His head throbbed as a shudder wracked his body, pushing his thoughts of the queen aside. Such worries would be a luxury for another time if he was fortunate enough to live through this.

“I don’t suppose you could make things easier for me and walk, now could you?” the stranger grumbled.

They both knew the answer. The stranger murmured something to himself in the unfamiliar, curt language from before. Then, without warning, he began to drag Poe through the snow.

Poe gasped as the waves of ice crystals struck his face. The snow, which must have been at least a foot deep by now, seemed like a frigid ocean from his position on the ground.

The stranger carried on ahead of him. Yet, Poe heard no crunching footsteps. He wondered whether his hearing was beginning to fade with his sight.

Another jolt of pain surged through his frame, making him groan in agony. The bite of the blade was spreading now. Cold, sharp needles leeched through his veins. His heart felt as if it were sinking into his chest, burrowing down till it beat against his spine. He let out an involuntary scream.

The stranger started at the sound. He stood still for a moment, looking around like an animal startled by a snapping twig.

“For the sake of the Valar…” he growled.

He set down his travelling pack, knelt down next to Poe and pressed a dark green wad against his wound. The substance was wet with a faint herbal smell. Slowly, the pain subsided to a muted aching, allowing Poe to regain some sense of control. He still felt dreadful, but it was a definite improvement from the previous excruciating state.

Satisfied that his companion had quieted down, the stranger began to drag him again. It was a slow, unwieldy way to travel. Poe could only hope that wherever they were headed was nearby.

“If you’ve got any sense in you,” the stranger whispered, “you’ll shut up, save your strength and keep us both from getting killed.”

Poe grunted in reluctant consent. Even on death’s doorstep, he wasn’t fond of being bossed around, especially not by some nameless passerby. As it was, however, he was in no place to critique the stranger’s etiquette.

There was nothing he could do now but close his eyes, breathe, live and hold on.

 

The moon was at its peak in the sky by the time they reached the mountain grotto where Armitage had spent the past several nights after long days of fruitless ambling. He did not know how much longer the cave would be safe. Though the entrance was inconspicuous amidst the jagged rocks and dead branches, the enemy would surely scout it out in time. Lost in the mountains, however, he knew no other refuge.

The opening of the cave was narrow, but Armitage managed to haul the limp body inside with a bit of maneuvering. Navigating the tunnels was a more difficult task, each narrow turn posing an exasperating struggle.

Halfway to the end, the wounded man went completely deadweight. At first, Armitage feared that the man had faded for good. Panicked, the half-elf checked the man’s pulse and heaved a sigh of relief. It was not yet too late.

With much toil, they arrived at the heart of the cave, a pair of alcoves where the mountain walls had arched to create a mirage of a manmade dwelling. Armitage hauled the man inside the first alcove and positioned him on a slab of rock.

The man moaned once more, having regained consciousness at the worst possible time. Armitage ignored him, hoping that any screaming would not echo outside of the cave.

He crushed another portion of athelas, chewed the leaves and smeared them over the wound. After rummaging through his pack, he found a small dagger. Any respectable healer would have been appalled by such crude equipment. Armitage shook his head, turning over the blade in his hands. It would have to do.

He retreated to the second alcove to clean the blade. A trickling spring issued from the cavern walls. It was a meager stream, but the water was clear enough to drink and bathe in. Such perfunctory cleansing would do little to prevent an infection, but an infection was a trivial matter compared to a Morgul wound.

Returning to his companion, he found the man lying awake, eyes fixed upward in a trance-like stare. Armitage pulled away the man’s armor and shirt. The latter shivered but uttered no complaint.

Letting the ghost of the old tutors guide his gaze, Armitage traced the course of the shard and found it inches from the man’s heart. They had an hour left. Any longer and the poison would be beyond his skill to remedy.

There was no time for hesitation. So, Armitage took up his blade and made the first cut.


	3. Storms and Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the comments and kudos. I hope this next chapter is enjoyable. I will hopefully be updating more that my schedule has cleared up a little.

He expected screaming. He had already devised precautions lest the noise carry out of the cave and had no qualms against gagging the man if necessary. His mentors had often resolved to use restraints in the absence of effective anesthetics. At times, it was only logical to do so. There was nothing delicate about healing in cases of emergency to begin with.

But the man did not scream. Beyond a few long groans after the dagger first pierced his chest, he was a stunningly quiet patient.

_Too quiet._

A flutter of doubt nearly stopped Armitage from going any farther. If the man was already too far gone to feel pain, perhaps he had already faded beyond return. In that event, the whole bloody affair had been a waste of time.

Lost time was not all that Armitage feared. He did not know what happened to one’s body after the soul had faded, whether or not the empty vessel posed a threat. He had no desire to find out.

He decided to proceed with the operation, nonetheless. His knifework was swift and methodical, though the awkward shape of the dagger hindered his attempts at more delicate incisions. He’d long had an affinity for small blades, appreciating their versatility and ease of handling in comparison to other bulkier weapons. He had owned a fine dagger as a youth. It had been a token from the Imperial Armory where the Order kept its store of regal blades. In his faded memory, they seemed like ancient relics.

He was within an inch of the shard and dangerously close to the heart when the man began to struggle. Gripped by a sudden frenzy, the limp figure lurched away with such force that Armitage nearly dropped the dagger. He caught the blade before it slipped, slicing the palm of his hand in the process.

Drawing back a sharp hiss of pain, he climbed onto the slab of rock where the wounded man lay writhing. One hand held the dagger while the other attempted to pin down the man’s arms. The latter had found inexplicable strength on the verge of death. Whatever unnamed menace had granted him this spirit was powerful indeed, so much so that Armitage had to fight to keep from being flung off onto the ground.

The struggle pushed an already precarious situation over the precipice. The incisions, which had been too large to begin with, now gaped wider, letting forth a wasteful stream of blood. Armitage’s hands shook as the red fluid soaked his sleeves and he knew that he had but a moment to decide whether to muffle the man’s agonized cries or stem the bleeding or ignore both. Having no time to deliberate, he tossed his dagger aside and dug under the skin where he prayed the shard would be. He felt something metallic and pulled at it. The man let out an unearthly shriek…

Armitage stumbled backwards, panting, the accursed shard cupped in his hands. The man was quiet once more, his chest rising and falling steadily as if in a pacific slumber. The idea that the same man had but a moment ago been flailing as if possessed by a demon seemed absurd now. Slowly, the sweet realization of success began to seep through. For the first time in many long months, Armitage tasted an inkling of peace.

But relief was short-lived. The blood had not yet begun to dry on the remnants of the blade when the metal began to burn his skin. Armitage gasped, his fingers paralyzed in a death grip around the scalding shard. His head throbbed in sharp pulses as if his skull was on the verge of shattering. As he crumpled to the floor, a voice hammered in his head:

_“Why do you run from us?”_

Armitage recognized the intruder at once. He had heard them close behind him, a looming malice that he fought to keep one step ahead of, but never this close, never _inside_ of him.

_Leave me_ , he snarled back at the intruder. _I do not answer to you._

_“In time, you will.”_ The intruder’s voice was harsher than before, each word accentuated with an agonizing surge. _“You will.”_

_Your threats are empty. Leave me. Now._ Armitage could feel the intruder’s ire beginning to boil, the agonizing pulses rising with the surge of rage. _I am not afraid of you._

He tried again to pry his fingers from the shard, only to have the intruder tighten his grip.

_“That is a lie.”_ Each word pounded in his head. Blinding pain clouded his mind as the invader pried into his thoughts, beating against the barrier of consciousness. _“One lie out of many others. Should I show it to you now? Should I show you the truth which you run from?”_

_You know nothing of the truth._ Armitage held back a scream. The intruder was furious now, battering through clouded memories in search of a hidden weapon. _You know nothing._

_“I know more of it than you let yourself see. But I can change that. I can have you see it now…”_

Then, intruder seized him with such force that Armitage could no longer resist. The cave dissolved like ripples in a pool and he felt himself drowning in dark waters. He gasped for breath and strained his ears for the comforting sound of his shelter, the trickling water in the cavern spring, but heard nothing but the roaring of waves. Somewhere in a distance, a host of men were shouting. Their curses sent a cold stream of dread coursed through his veins.

_“You know this place?”_ the intruder’s words sting like red-hot blades.

Armitage shook his head. This was nothing but a waking nightmare. He refused to be so childish as to see it as anything else.

_“You’ve forgotten?”_ the intruder mocked him. _“Shall I remind you?”_

The world whirled in the raging tempest, dragging Armitage underwater. When he fought his way to the surface, he found himself in the shadow of a ship. It was an enormous, armored vessel as stern and dogged as its crew, and it was coming right toward him.

_“You are afraid now,”_ the intruded sneered. _“I can feel you trembling, just as you did that night…”_

Another wave crashed down. This time, however, Armitage remained still. There was nothing to fight against, nothing _real_ to fight against, only the intruder who has spun the mirage. He refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him grapple with a harmless fantasy.

_I have nothing to fear in your lies_ , Armitage screamed back over the illusion. _And you have no place tormenting me with them. Leave. Now._

The intruder’s grasp faltered and the shard fell from his hands with a _clang_. The storm dissipated as swiftly as it had descended. Armitage fell forward, crouched on his hands and knees, breathing heavily. The throbbing in his head ceased as he regained sovereign control of his own thoughts. His knees wobbled as he rose to his feet. A faint burn, bearing resemblance to a long-faded scar, remained on the palm of his right hand, the only sign of the attack.

The shard lay idle on the floor of the cave, as if it were no more than a harmless trinket. Armitage watched as the metal disintegrated into fine ash. Such was the nature of a Morgul blade, but this had been no such weapon.

Though a Morgul blade had many dark powers indeed, possession by touch was not one of them, if one could rightfully refer to what had just transpired as “possession”. Armitage had no name for the struggle which had befallen him. He only hoped it would never happen again.

The man was sleeping placidly on the slab of rock. Armitage crept to his side and examined the wound. The bleeding had ceased, and the black lines of venom had disappeared. The healing had been successful. Whether it had been worth his efforts remained to be seen.

Now, however, Armitage was exhausted. He watched the unconscious man warily. While he was asleep, the stranger posed no threat, but there was no way of telling how long that would last. Perhaps Armitage had rescued a scoundrel by mistake, one who would attack if left unguarded. He could not afford to take any chances.

In his bag, he found a line of rope, coiled among the leaves and preserves, just enough to bind the man’s hands. It was a very rudimentary precaution, but certainly a better option than falling asleep with a stranger in such close proximity. For now, there was no basis for trust, and Armitage had not trekked so far to have his throat cut in his sleep by an unthankful bandit. If the man chose to help him, perhaps they could negotiate otherwise. If not, Armitage would trudge onward as he had for so long, alone with his own wits and knife as protection, and the man would pay for his ingratitude.


	4. Compromised Circumstances

Poe awoke to the cold touch of water dripping onto his forehead. There was a bandage across his chest holding something in place over his wound. The substance had a subtle, herbal aroma which he could not identify, and felt cold against his skin. The pain had dissipated, save a dull ache around the cut, leaving him unexpectedly refreshed.

He was lying on his back, gazing at the jagged ceiling of a cavern. It was far from the most comfortable resting place he had ever dwelt in, but a welcomed alternative to the snow-laden mountains. To his relief, his vision had come back into focus. It wasn’t until he attempted to brush away the water from his face that he noticed the rope encircling his wrists.

It wasn’t his first time in such compromised circumstances. His feet were not bound and the rope tying his hands was not tethered, making his current predicament somewhat less complicated than its predecessors. Still, his surroundings were unfamiliar and, though his condition was vastly improved, he had yet to recover his full strength.

The knot was exceptionally complicated, such that there was no hope of tugging it loose. Careful to conceal his movement else his captor realize he was awake, Poe turned his head discreetly to the side to see the rest of the cave. It was a small grotto, an alcove by the side of a tunnel from what he could tell. The sound of flowing water echoed softly through the cavern, though its source was nowhere in sight. A small travelling pack rested close to Poe’s stone cot. Some of its sundry contents had spilled out of the overfilled bag: small bottles, clumps of dried plants and a few ragged pieces of clothing.

A slight figure lay sleeping besides the pack, wrapped in a thin cloak. His hands were cupped beneath his head, a childlike pose which made him look almost innocent. Judging by his actions, however, the stranger was anything but innocent.

Poe recognized him as the stranger in the mountains, the one who had dragged him through the snow. Beyond a vague memory of being pulled into the tunnel, the journey to the cave was too clouded to recall. Poe did, however, remember the stranger attempting to steal his sword. He supposed the latter had assumed he was dead, a fair assumption at the time. The thieves in the mountains never had good intentions, whether they stole from the living or the dead.

The sword in question was propped against the cavern wall, a mere two feet away from the stranger. Poe inched towards the edge of the stone slab, glancing towards the sleeping form to make sure his captor hadn’t awoken. Ascertaining that the latter appeared to be deep in slumber, Poe shifted into a sitting position on the slab, wincing from the ache of tired joints. His legs wobbled as he stood up for what felt like the first time in months, but he limped forward, nonetheless.

After reaching where the sword lay, Poe looked to the stranger once more and started at the sight of the latter’s eyes, wide open, staring directly at him. He was already racing to find a feasible plan of defense when he realized the stranger had not moved an inch. He had not even blinked. Once Poe had gathered his wits, he was quick to realize the catatonic state as none other than an elven dream.

So, the stranger was not fully human.

From the crispness about his features to his uncanny manner of waking slumber, the stranger openly bore the mark of elven kind. Or perhaps Poe was simply trained to recognize one whose bloodline was similar to his own. It was rare for him to meet another of his kind. There were few half-elvens left in Middle Earth, the lineage of Eärendil having departed many years ago. Rumor had it that the _Peredhel_ would soon fade away, departed or diminished through time like their immortal ancestors.

How one of the _Peredhel_ had found himself living beneath the mountain, in what appeared to be solitude, robbing unlucky travelers, Poe could not fathom, but now was not the time to dwell on it. Elvish dreams were ephemeral, giving him little time to escape. He shifted the sword with his feet and fists so that the blade was between his bounds. Then, he began to saw away at the knot, rubbing the rope against the edge of the blade until it began to fray.

He caught no more warning than a peripheral glimpse of movement before the attack came from behind, but time in battle had sharpened Poe’s reflexes, and he was able to whip around in time to knock the assailant off his feet. The attacker tumbled backwards with a cry of shock. Green eyes glinted with ire as the half-elf got to his feet. He was trembling, from fury or weakness, or perhaps both.

With his hands still bound, albeit more loosely now, any attempt to wield a sword would be foolish. There was no time to deliberate. Glimpsing the gleam of a dagger, Poe lunged forward, knocking his restrained fists hard against his attacker’s hands.

The knife clattered to the ground as they fell. Poe struggled to keep the skinnier half-elf pinned to the floor. Despite his delicate built, the stranger was by no means timid in combat. He thrashed like a demon, reaching desperately for his dagger.

Realizing the weapon was too far away, he attempted to throw Poe off of him, kicking and clawing, and nearly succeeded. But the latter had already consolidated his advantage. Mustering wits and strength alike, Poe straddled his opponent and looped his bound wrists around the latter’s neck. Pinned on his stomach, the stranger continued to struggle in vain.

“Let me go, scum!” he seethed. He tried to thrash once more, but Poe held him fast.

“Funny,” Poe said. “I could ask you the same thing. Might have been easier on both of us if you’d agreed in the first place.”

“If I had let you, you would have been dead or worse.” The stranger attempted to twist his head around to face Poe, managing a sideways glower. “You look surprised. What now? Did you think that ugly cut of yours healed and bound itself? I suppose you think you found shelter here on your own too. No wonder you’re so ungrateful.”

“You…” Poe’s voice trailed off. It was coming back to him now – the stranger bent over him, smoothing herbs over his wound, the distant agony of the surgery. He had lost consciousness at some point during the healing. He could not recall when. Indeed, he had reason to be grateful for the remedy, but that didn’t grant the healer any excuse to imprison him.

“Perhaps I’d be more grateful if you hadn’t tied me up and robbed me afterwards,” Poe said.

“Would you rather I left the sword behind?” the stranger growled. “I was keeping it for you… keeping it safe. I had no intention of taking it. Not anymore. I thought you were dead…” Sensing that neither of them were thoroughly convinced, the half-elf abandoned the case and turned back to struggling. “You snake! Is this is how you thank me? Get off! _Off! Now!_ ”

“You meant to hold me captive.” Poe drew his hands closer to the stranger’s throat, holding him tighter. “What for? Who are you? Who do you serve?”

“None of your business!” the stranger snapped. “Let me go! Snake! Scum!’

“No!” Poe refused.

Despite his firm grip and fierce words, however, he was uncertain how much longer he could sustain control. He had already defied the odds with this small victory. It was best not to stretch his fortune any thinner.

“What do you mean to do then?” the stranger spat. “Kill me?!”

“I doubt that would do either of us any good, now would it?” Poe said.

“Then _let me go!_ ” the other demanded, writhing harder than before.

“I will once you answer my questions,” Poe said. “And if you agree to let me go afterwards.”

The stranger ceased his squirming for a moment before resuming the fight.

“You have no right to demand anything from me,” he said. “No right!”

“Well, then,” Poe replied. “We’ll be here for a while. I hope you’re comfortable. I certainly am not.”

This time, the stranger went still for a good, long breath. He twisted his head around once more to give Poe another look of pure rage.

“Fine,” he said, the reluctance in his tone thick like molten lead. “Let me go and I will do what I can to satisfy your impertinent curiosity.”

“We have a deal then?” Poe asked.

“Yes, yes!” the stranger whined as if the agreement brought him physical pain. “Just get off of me!”

Preparing himself for another confrontation, Poe got to his feet and rushed for the fallen dagger. With great difficulty, he managed to clasp the handle of the blade between his bound hands. He expected the stranger to attack him again, but the latter only watched, standing against the cavern wall with his arms crossed.

“You don’t trust me,” the stranger said. “I can tell by the way you stare at me.”

“Happens when someone tries to stab you in the back,” Poe muttered.

“I never did anything of the sort!”

Ignoring the stranger’s protest against the accusation, Poe returned to the corner where his sword lay, dropped the knife, and finished cutting through the ropes. Hands now unbound, he placed the sword back in its sheath behind his back.

“Now, I’ll ask you again,” he said, flexing his stiff wrists. “Who are you, who do you serve, and what insufficient excuse do you have for holding me captive?”

“I never intended to hold you captive,” the stranger continued to argue. “The restraints were a precaution only, entirely temporary…”

“Answer the question,” Poe ordered, reaching for his sword. A streak of fear flashed in the stranger’s eyes. “And in the name of the Two Trees of Valinor, the Valar and Illúvatar himself, answer truthfully. Those names hold some value to you, I would think.”

The stranger gave a slight nod. His eyes flitted downward as he murmured an inaudible phrase to himself, another curse, Poe presumed. Finally, he gave his answer:

“My name is Armitage, son of Brendol. I serve no one but my father and the rest of my kin in the east. I have been far away from them for far too long. And that is why, in payment of a life debt – else you have so soon forgotten that favor – I ask for your help.”

The half-elf paused to gather himself. His rage was dulled now, and there was a slight tremor in his voice.

“I do not know these regions,” he went on. “I have no way of telling which way I came here by or which would lead me back. I… I need a guide.”

Years later, Poe would wonder what exactly had convinced him to listen to the stranger that day, whether it was the clear tone of desperation or the vulnerability Armitage tried so desperately to hide, whether the sympathy had been reflexive or deeper than that. Years later, he would wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t listened, if he’d left while he had the chance to escape or attacked his presumed former captor without hearing another word. For if he had done so, things would have been very different indeed.

But as it happened, Poe considered the proposition, and said with neither coldness nor warmth:

“You need a pathfinder. Well then, you may have gotten lucky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In this story, Poe is more apt to recover his strength after the attack than a full mortal because he is half-elven. Whether this is canon in Tolkien mythology or not, I can't honestly say because I don't know of an example of one of the half-elves being injured by a Morgul blade or something similar. It is stated that the elves are, however, invulnerable to disease and, in part because they do not technically sleep/need to sleep the way humans would, have more stamina than mortals in both LoTR and the Silmarillion (e.g. Legolas during the pursuit of the Uruk-hai, probably Maedhros surviving hanging off the cliff for so long, etc.).


	5. Negotiations Cut Short

“You expect me to take you where?!”

Armitage was pressed against the cave wall, keeping as much distance between himself and the one he had temporarily dubbed the “ungrateful scum” as possible. His eyes darted between the scum’s face and the stolen dagger. A mixture of fear and ire boiled within him, the most dangerous amalgamation.

“Belfalas,” he repeated. “The Bay of Belfalas. How many times must I say it?”

He eyed the dagger longingly. The weapon would certainly have expediated negotiations. Instead, despite of his pains and right to repayment, he had been forced to bargain with this insufferable man.

_No, not a man_. He corrected his own thoughts. He had always known, or at least suspected, that there were once others of his kind. But whether any were still alive or present in Middle Earth, he had had no way of telling till today. The First Order, unlike the northern realms, had been founded solely on the doings of mankind, and that was all he had ever known until the disaster which sundered him from them. Thus, whether he was hated or prized for it, his elven blood had rarely gone unnoticed.

His kinsmen had marked early on how the thin slip of a boy could endure the frigid winters and plagues which had stolen so many children, deemed stronger in terms of both frame and manner. Now, Armitage saw that same doggedness reflected in another. He was sure the strength that had bore him in his youth through the harsh elements had also granted the scum an eerily swift recovery.

“Do you have any idea where the Bay of Belfalas is?” asked the scum.

“If I did, I don’t believe I would be asking for your assistance in getting there,” Armitage replied.

“We’d have to find our way out of these mountains first. Then, we would still need to cross the full length of Gondor before we got anywhere _near_ the Bay of Belfalas. Do you know how far that is?”

The patronizing note in the scum’s question did not escape Armitage. His hand moved instinctually to where he normally kept his knife.

“No, I do not,” he answers through gritted teeth.

“Well, it’s far,” the scum said. “Very far.” He drew in a deep breath. “Look, Armi…”

“Armitage.”

“Armitage, I would be more than happy to express my gratitude for you aid in a reasonable fashion. But trekking to the Southern Border in the dead of winter on foot when neither of us are in any condition for the journey is not what I’d consider reasonable.”

Armitage glowered at the other half-elf from across the cave. His father’s words drifted back to him now. The world outside the rule of the First Order, he had been warned, did not operate on principles of honor. If one were to offer a favor to these kingdoms, or worse, propose an alliance as the old Easterlings had, the northern realms would only exploit this cordiality. Why then, had he been so naïve to think the wounded traveler would help him?

“You would leave me here to die, then?” Armitage caught the scum flinch at the accusation. “I ought to have done the same with you then.”

“I’m no murderer,” the other half-elf said. His voice had softened a little, though his resolve had not. “I have no desire to see you dead. But there’s a limit to how much I can help.”

“How much you _can_ or how much you _will_?” Armitage questioned.

“Does it really matter?” said the scum. “I’ll offer you a deal, then, a compromise. I will lead you out of the mountains by whatever route I can find. Afterwards, you may return to Minas Tirith with me, unless you change your mind about being stranded in the wilderness.”

“Return to where?” Armitage asked.

The scum gave him an incredulous stare.

“Minas Tirith,” he repeated. Realizing that the name alone was not sufficient clarification, he began to ramble. “City of Kings. Gondor… surely, you’ve heard of Gondor.”

 “I have,” Armitage said before he could think otherwise. There was some truth in his answer, though his knowledge of Gondor (save the few disparaging remarks he remembered his kinsmen making about the land) was limited enough that he might as well have never heard of it. But he couldn’t stand to feel even more ignorant, even more disadvantaged in the bargaining.

“It’s a beautiful city,” said the other half-elf. “And it’s as best of a refuge from the wild that I can bring you to. When they hear of how you healed me, I am sure they will allow you to stay. They’ll treat you well. Give you food, clean water, a nice hot bath.” He looked Armitage up and down. The latter felt something squirm inside him. “And looking at you, I think you could use some of all three.”

Armitage blushed in spite of himself and scowled.

“I have no desire to go to Gondor,” he said.

“You really have your heart set on Belfalas, don’t you,” the scum said, shaking his head. “And even if we could go that far, we’d have to pass through Gondor regardless.”

“We could go around,” Armitage interjected.

“We could,” replied the scum. “If we wanted to make an already impractical plan even more impractical. Really, once we get to Minas Tirith, you will be more than happy there. It’s safe. They’ll treat you well. You have my word.”

It was not the first time Armitage had been promised such things. By now, he had learned that “safe” was the hunters’ preferred word to describe a trap.

“I will not go to Minas Tirith,” he said. “If we must go through Gondor, it must as quick. I am not looking for refuge or sanctuary. I already have my home, my land, and that is where I intend to go whether you agree to it or not!”

“Fine then,” the scum said. “Go on without me. I would have shown myself out earlier if you hadn’t tied me up.”

“Wait.” Armitage despised the way the word came out as a plea rather than an order.

He could feel the panic threatening to take hold and didn’t know how much longer he could struggle against it. He gathered himself, harnessing the scattered memories of how his father used to negotiate with the local factions and mercenaries. There were ways to spark loyalty in even the most dishonorable men, rewards for which the appeal lay at a more intrinsic level.

“You refuse to go to Belfalas, but not for lack of ability,” he said. “And if you think otherwise, you lie to yourself. What you lack is an incentive.”

The tip of the scum’s sword followed close to his neck as Armitage moved toward his travelling pack from which he drew a ring with a single jewel, a crimson hexagonal crystal with sixteen dark streaks pointing towards the center. His hands shook as he tossed the ring to the other half-elf, quickly before any nostalgic reluctance could stop him.

“Take this as your first payment for guiding me back to the First Order,” said Armitage. “When we arrive, my father will pay you a thousandfold more. He holds a position of great prominence in the Order.” He gritted his teeth and added with as much respect as he could muster, “My good lord.”

The other half-elf examined the ring warily, as if he were afraid it bore a curse, before attempting to pass it back.

“As generous as that is,” he said. “I’m not out to make that kind of profit.”

“What kind of profit would suit you then?” Armitage demands, unable to subdue his desperation. “I don’t know what you were searching for out here to start with, but whatever it is, I promise the Order will give you more for my safe return.”

“Unless your Order is dealing in titles and ranks in Gondor,” the scum said, “I don’t think they have what I was out here for.”

“Titles and ranks,” Armitage echoed. “The Order’s influence stretches far in the southern trade routes. Bring me there and my father will see to it that you bring your homeland such lucrative opportunities that your rulers would be mad to deny you any honors or titles of your land, my good lord.”

In response, the scum only laughed and said, “You don’t know our queen… and enough with this business of ‘my good lord’. I don’t like to see you fawning. If you want to call me by a title, ‘Captain Dameron’ will do just fine. But if we’re on a first-name basis, just call me ‘Poe’.”

“Well, then, _Captain Dameron_. I…”

Before Armitage could say another word, he heard a noise echoing from the entrance of the tunnel: the faintest crackling of pebbles dislodged by the stealthy movements of a trespasser. He could tell by the way Poe stiffened that the other half-elf had heard it too.

“Give me my knife,” Armitage hissed at Poe. The latter shook his head. “Dameron, give me my knife!”

“Shh!” Poe hushed him.

The hunters were closing in now. Armitage could already feel their blades, hot against his throat.

“We need to get out of here,” Poe whispered.

“They’re at the entrance, don’t you understand?” Armitage growled.

“Not so loud!” Poe tilted his head toward the tunnel. “The routes beneath these mountains all lead somewhere, but you’ll need to stay close. Now, follow me.”

“Not without my…”

Poe dashed out of the alcove before Armitage could finish his sentence, bringing the dagger and the sword with him, leaving the latter no choice but to follow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated. Constructive criticism is welcomed too.


End file.
